


Put Your Flowers Down, It's Too Cold

by beariot



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Football Player Louis, Popular Louis, Ziam (blink and you'll miss it), and i use the word enemies very lightly, and its a little kinky, harry is a bit of a photography nerd too, technically tattoo painting, there's also body painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beariot/pseuds/beariot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Louis and Harry think they don't like each other, but really, they do. All it takes is Zayn being away on bootycall, a snowstorm and a bad Titanic reference to bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Your Flowers Down, It's Too Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This was written for the holiday cheer fic challenge and my three elements were football au, humour and a snowstorm. I tried, but this little fic kinda happened. By now, I've probably watched one too many videos of snowstorms and also realised I might just have a thing for paint. I hope you do too. Happy holidays and much love <3

  
_You’ll cling to anything._ Harry reads, chewing aggressively on the cap of his highlighter, _To be honest- and this sounds really stupid- I feel sometimes now like I’m actually starving for someone to touch me. God, it sounds even more stupid than I thought it would._ Harry hums in agreement, he knows loneliness. He supposes everyone does, really. Some nights, it snakes through his mind, coiling around his thoughts and pressing against the walls of his skull until he can barely breathe. He whispers the words under his breath just to taste them, to feel them flick against the back of his mouth, going over them with the blinding yellow highlighter he nicked from Niall a few days ago. The ink is heavy and bleeds into the next page. Harry frowns, closing the book with a soft sigh. He folds his legs under him, leaning his head against the library window. He found the vacant seat earlier, nestled in between shelves of books and pushed up against the window. Harry decides he likes this seat- it’s near enough the library Starbucks that the warm smell of coffee has seeped into the worn leather. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he pulls it out. It’s a snapchat notification from his best friend. Harry can’t help the giggle that slips out of his mouth, looking at Niall pulling faces that really shouldn’t be humanely possible, in the middle of class, no less. Harry decides to reply with a classic. He holds his phone up above him, his long fingers wrapping around the iPhone comfortably. Harry drops his chin down, and looks up at the camera through his lashes, pouting heavily. 

“Honestly mate, the duck face?” someone asks from behind him, voice light and lilting with teasing condescension.

Harry startles, dropping his phone on his face. Shit. Of course he manages to make himself look like an even greater idiot. 

Harry feels the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment and he looks up at the boy grudgingly. It feels like someone just punched him in the throat, because wow. Harry always knew Louis Tomlinson was gorgeous. But not like this. He had never quite seen the footie captain this close, and it was almost overwhelming. He looks at him and suddenly Harry wants to know. He wants to know if the corners of his eyes crinkles like mountain ridges when he smiles. He wants to know if his knees smear with green when he collapses onto the football field after late practice, laughing at the stars. 

"You’re in my seat."

Louis Tomlinson is also a dickhead, then. 

Harry pulls his lips into a straight, unamused line, nostrils flaring slightly. Jeff calls it his sexy glare. Niall calls it his constipated frog face. Harry supposes they're both right. 

“I don’t see your name on it,” Harry drawls, eyeing the other boy with feigned disinterest. Inside, his heart is thrashing against his ribcage. Harry wonders if Louis can hear it. 

Louis’ eyes narrow, and instead of going cold, his eyes are simmering with barely concealed annoyance.

“Listen, Curly. I’m going to cut this short because I don’t think you’d be able to keep up otherwise. I’ve been sitting here practically everyday for the semester, before you decided to waltz in here and steal it from me. This seat is mine.” he explains, his smooth voice sharp and acerbic.

Louis crosses his arms over his chest, looking at Harry expectantly. The fabric of his jumper pulls tightly over the swell of muscles in his arms, a contrast to the small, delicate hands peeking out of the sleeves.

“I’m not moving,” Harry says simply. He feels Louis staring at him, and he resists the urge to blush and duck his head. He’s not going to let the football captain bully him out of his seat. Nope. He takes it that Louis isn’t used to being denied what he wants. Typical. The silence drags on for a couple of long moments. “Fine,” Louis huffs indignantly. Harry expects Louis to storm off, to leave with the same reckless flurry that he barged into Harry’s life with. What Harry doesn’t expect is for Louis to close the distance between them and plonk himself down squarely on Harry’s lap. 

“What are you- what the fuck?” Harry splutters, his voice cracking at the end. 

“I told you. This is my seat. If you’re not going to move, we’re sharing.” Louis says lightly, throwing a smug look at Harry.

Louis calmly unzips his school bag and pulls out his laptop, settling comfortably into the stunned boy’s lap. 

“How do you expect me to get anything done with your stupid arse in the way?” Harry growls. All he wanted was a nice, warm spot to sit and read. Instead he has a lapful of Tomlinson. Louis pointedly ignores Harry, and resumes typing on his macbook. Frustrated, Harry bucks his hips up, attempting to throw the smaller boy off. Louis gasps in surprise, the sound raspy and breathless, and Harry’s mind blanks for a second. Fuck. Louis grips the sides of the chair, the muscles in his forearms straining as he roughly grounds himself against Harry’s lap. Harry tries to slam his hips up again to push Louis off, but the football captain is surprisingly strong, and has Harry pinned.

Harry lets out a low whine, “You’re bloody mental, you know that?”

It’s at that point that Harry notices the girl a few seats away, Taylor, he thinks, snapping a picture of the both of them. Harry blanches as he realises what it might have looked like. Remembering that his hands still work, he places them in the middle of Louis’ back, not thinking about how his hands almost engulf the slender boy, and pushes hard. Louis stumbles off Harry’s lap with a squeak. He turns around and glares at Harry, who grins wolfishly, all white teeth and half-mooned dimples. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Louis warns, and his voice is soft and almost gentle but bursting at the seams with dominance and Harry feels the grin slide of his face. He watches with dread as Louis sets his laptop down, and Harry barely has time to brace himself before Louis launches himself at him. Louis is all hard angles and soft curves, and Harry feels all the air get knocked out of him as Louis elbows him in the ribs, trying to push Harry off the chair. Harry digs his heels into the ground, and a distant part of him is horrified at how their fighting like immature children, over a fucking chair, of all things. Harry’s about to tell Louis he can have the damn chair, but he’s interrupted by teeth sinking into his arm, which he had been using as a shield from Louis’ attacks.

“You bit me! Oh my god you fucking bit me!” Harry gasps incredulously.

Louis shrugs, blue eyes dancing cheekily.

Harry slumps back into the seat, defeated. He’s a little amazed they haven’t incurred the wrath of the librarian, but he’s not complaining.

“Fine, we’ll share, okay?” Harry relents in a small voice, moulding his limbs to the right half of the chair, leaving a gap for Louis to slot himself in.

His arm gives an angry throb in protest where Louis bit him. The older boy nods, satisfied, and promptly sits down. The leather seat gives an ugly squeak, which he ignores.

Harry knows his hipbones are digging into Louis sides uncomfortably, and he shifts awkwardly, allowing Louis to rest slightly on his lap. Louis says nothing, and instead diverts his attention back to his laptop. Harry clears his throat, and looks down to where his denim clad limbs are pressed against curvy, muscular thighs. Right. He pulls his book out again, opening up to where he last left off. If he spends the better part of the hour with his eyes glazing over the same page, he figures no one needs to know. 

 

                                                                                                                  ***

 

Louis loves their little flat. The permanent smell of summer, sweat and the sharp bitterness of coffee soaked into the walls, the paint splattered floor tiles where Zayn curls up with his sketchbook until the sunlight peels away from the window. The scorched, blackened square on the wood of the table, where Louis and Zayn had placed a hot baking tray fresh out of the oven, from that one time they decided to try their hand at cooking. It was a little bit of a disaster, the vanilla cake soggy and heavy with the taste of too much egg, but they curled up on the couch and ate it anyway. 

Louis finds an abandoned jumper draped over the back of a chair and pulls it over his head, inhaling deeply. It smelt of Zayn- cigarette smoke and turpentine. Louis smiles, soft and a little sad. He thinks of that line from that poem-  _You can’t make homes out of people. Someone should have already told you that-_ and the thing is, he knows. Louis knows it’s not fair but it’s Zayn and Zayn’s safe and warm and Zayn would never leave him. They’ve been best friends since their first year at uni. Louis was there when Zayn came home one night, dark eyes impossibly alive and bright, the delicate bones of his chest quivering with each heavy breath as he tells Louis how Liam kissed him for the first time. And Zayn was there when Louis got the phone call from his mum that he was once again, an older brother and they held each other, crying and laughing.

Louis clears his throat, bringing the steaming mug of hot chocolate to his lips. Zayn had left him some in a thermos flask before heading out to Liam's flat earlier that morning. The steam fogs up his glasses and Louis pulls them off his face, absent-mindedly tracing a heart onto each lens with the tip of his finger. He realises what he’s drawn and roughly clears it away with his sleeves before cramming his glasses back on. Louis makes a careless noise in his throat, and it splinters in the stillness of the flat. Louis hates it when it’s too quiet. He sings softly to himself for a moment, just to fill up the silence, but it sounds fragile and thin and he feels stupid so he shuts up. Louis sighs, turning his attention to the window. It’s the beginnings of a snow storm- the sky grey and murky like dirty paint water, spitting out sludge and snow which splatters in ugly patterns against the glass panes. Louis listens to the sound of the wind howling and rattling the windows and he feels the cold sink deeper into his bones. Shivering slightly, he tucks his knees under his chin, circling his arms around his legs. Something about the way the wind screams makes him want to scream too, to bang his fists against the walls until they bruise and scream until his throat feels raw. But he doesn’t. He breathes out shakily, closing his eyes. He hopes the storm passes and Zayn comes home soon. 

 

                                                                                                         ***

 

Harry knocks on the door, gently first, then more insistent as the storm behind him intensified. He was partially sheltered by the corridor joining the flats on the second floor, but the cold wind found a way to nip at his cheeks. Bloody snow storm. On the fifth knock or so, the door swings open and for the second time this week, Harry is stunned. The boy in front of him is most definitely not his visual communications project partner. His hair is soft and tousled, fringe falling into those blue eyes he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about. An oversized jumper hangs off his slight frame, scooping wide at his collarbones, exposing the words _It is what it is_ in delicate cursive.

“Louis?” Harry says breathlessly. Louis blinks slowly from behind his glasses, like an owl. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen him with his glasses on.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks, not unkindly. His voice is soft and Harry wants to wrap himself in veneers of it. Harry opens his mouth to explain, but Louis cuts in. 

“Why don’t you come in first? You’re letting in all the cold,” Louis says, wrapping his arms around his body, as he steps aside to let Harry enter.

Harry scruffs his boots against the doormat to shake off the snow, before stepping into the flat and closing the door with a soft snick behind him. 

Harry shrugs out of his heavy coat, and Louis points to a chair for him to drape it over. 

They stare at each other for a moment, the tension in the air heavy and stifling. 

Harry reminds himself that judging from how their first meeting went, Louis probably doesn’t quite like him very much, and that the feeling is mutual. Even if he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the footie captain since that day in the library. And he may or may not have featured in dreams he rather not talk about. 

“So, you’re not Zayn.” Harry begins slowly, his low voice chasing away the silence.

“What do you want with Zayn?” Louis asks, eyes narrowing, defensive but also very confused. 

“Zayn’s in my visual comms class. My partner, actually. We were supposed to work on a project together today, but I suppose I got the address wrong,” Harry explains.

A pause. Then: “No, you’ve got it right. Zayn and I live together. He must have forgotten about your meeting though, because he’s over at his boyfriend’s flat,” Louis explains. 

Harry swallows, rocking back on the balls of his feet, not too sure what to do. He feels Louis’ expectant gaze on him, and he finds himself blushing slightly. The sound of the window sill groaning under the pressure of the storm raging outside presses down around them heavily.

“I guess I’ll go then. I don’t want to be a bother,” Harry says plainly, sliding his hands through the sleeves of his coat. Harry moves to open the door, bracing himself for the storm waiting for him outside. 

“Stay.” Louis voice is calm and steady, assertive. Harry feels a shiver run through him at the sound. He momentarily wonders if Louis uses that voice in bed too. Louis must have taken his lack of response for reluctance because he continues, “Don’t be daft, Harry. It’s storming outside, and it’s definitely not safe for you to be walking around or however it is you got here. Just stay.” 

Harry nods once, tongue darting out to lick his lips. He looks up at the older boy. Louis looks vulnerable and small, standing there with sleeves that hang past his wrists, and delicate ankles peeking out from under the hem of his pants but Harry knows there’s nothing fragile and weak about the boy in front of him. He sees the iron that grounds him, in the way he stalks across the football field before a match. He sees it in the way Louis expands into everything around him, spilling into every corner of any room he’s in, taking control implicitly. 

“Thank you, Louis.” he says warmly. Louis smiles lightly at him, and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, like the thin paper of oriental fans. Perhaps, Harry admits to himself, Perhaps Louis Tomlinson isn’t a dickhead jock and perhaps they don’t quite dislike each other at all. 

 

                                                                                                                  ***

 

“Lou,” Harry whispers, curling on his side, looking at the boy lying down next to him on his back. He takes in the thick dark lashes, the gentle slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips, and Harry feels his chest tighten with the urge to trace Louis’ face with his fingers. The sharp cut of his cheekbones are accentuated by the flickering fairy lights draped around the blankets they had dragged onto Louis living room floor.

Harry’s a little amazed at how quickly the initial awkwardness had faded, how Louis’ eyes had softened almost imperceptibly with fondness when Harry had pulled out of his bag the slightly smushed cupcakes he had packed along to share with Zayn. And how he had laughed indulgently when Harry suggested they build a blanket fort when the power got cut and the lights spluttered off. By the end of the first hour, whatever animosity that had festered between them had long faded.

“Hazza,” Louis whispers back, the nickname slipping from his mouth effortlessly, as if it had always been lingering, waiting, to be tasted.

Harry meets Louis eyes, and he swears there are poems written in the flecks of steel blue.  _I used to be afraid of the dark and of small spaces. But lying here with you, I realise I’m afraid of all the wrong things,_ he feels like saying. Instead he really says: “Why do you have so much paint and art stuff anyway? I didn’t peg you for the artsy sort."

Louis snorts inelegantly, and sits up, feigning outrage. “They’re Zayn’s,” he admits begrudgingly, “But I’ll have you know I could be the next Mona Lisa if I wanted to,” he scoffs. 

Harry laughs, and the warm sound fills the room. “Mona Lisa is a painting, Da Vinci is the artist, love,” he corrects, grinning at Louis. 

Louis scrowls, “I knew that, I was just testing you. My primary school art teacher  used to tell me I was the reincarnation of Van Gogh himself."

Harry laughs again. “Prove it to me, then. Prove to me you’re the prodigious epitome of artistic talent,” he challenges. 

Louis smiles then, his smile bright and eyes alive and dancing and god, he’s beautiful. He stands up, stretching his arms above his waist, and his hipbones peek out from the sliver of skin exposed. Harry can’t rip his eyes away.

Louis walks over to the table under the window, where paintbrushes and graphite pencils sit in empty plastic bottles. 

Harry gets up from his spot on the floor, and goes to lie on the sofa instead, where he has a better view of Louis. 

He watches as Louis squeezes paint onto an empty palette, reds and yellows and blues. Louis accidentally flicks paint on himself, and Harry giggles, wondering when the other boy would swallow his pride and admit defeat. Probably never. 

Louis looks up to meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry knows he was wondering the same.

“Draw me like one your french girls,” Harry exhales heavily, looking up at Louis through his eyelashes with a sultry smile, trying not to laugh.

From the grin Louis flashes him, Harry knows his joke wasn’t lost.

“Sure,” Louis says easily, shrugging his shoulders.

Okay, he wasn’t expecting that. Louis balances the palette on his forearms, grabs a paintbrush and walks over to the sofa.

“Take of your shirt, Curly,” Louis orders cheekily, holding back laughter. “You did ask me to draw you like one of my french girls and an artist always delivers his promises.”

Harry knows Louis is just joking around, but his breath catches in his throat.

“Haz. Take off your shirt.” Louis says again, softer this time, and his voice sounds like iron wrapped in satin. Cutting and raw beneath silky smoothness. There’s a challenge burning in Louis' eyes, and Harry knows he can’t back down. He can’t loose to Louis. It’s winter and it’s storming angrily outside and he’s with a beautiful boy and he’s cold, so cold but he pulls his shirt over his head with shaking fingers because no, he can’t loose to Louis.

Harry looks up at Louis expectantly. He’s breathing heavily, as he watches Louis place the paints on the floor, and kneels gracefully in front of Harry. His eyes drag slowly across Harry’s body, and Harry swears he can feel it, soft and gentle and curious. 

“Louis?” Harry asks, and his voice is is husky. 

He doesn’t answer, and instead delicately dips the brush into paint, and instead of smearing it onto paper, he reaches forward slightly and with a feather-light stroke, fills in the wings of the butterfly tattooed on Harry’s chest. _Oh._  


“My art teacher also told me,” Louis begins conversationally, “I was the best at colouring inside the lines.” He doesn’t look up at Harry, instead gently dabs more colour into the tattoo. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, heart pounding steadily. He looks down slightly. He’s not ready for the way the paint feels on his bare skin, cold and biting, or the way Louis’ fingers curl over the wood of the paintbrush, the way his eyes burn with intensity as he concentrates. Harry doesn’t trust himself to speak. He returns his gaze to the butterfly on his chest, and he thinks Louis’ art teacher was a bit of a liar. The strokes are uneven and messy, paint bleeding out of the lines. Harry loves it anyway. 

Every stroke of the brush sends arousal licking up his spine, and he fights it, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, he imagines that the wetness on his skin is Louis’ mouth, his tongue. He bites back the whimper that threatens to escape, trying to get a grip on himself. “Almost done,” Louis says gently. Harry watches as Louis finishes up the butterfly with more green paint, cocking his head to the side as he admires his work.

“Do my birdies now please, Lou,” Harry asks, his voice raw and slightly pleading. He is so fucked. 

Louis smirks devilishly, “ Told you I was good."

He complies, shifting even closer to Harry. He resists the urge to run his hand through Louis’ caramel hair, to thread the softness through his fingers. Louis coats the paintbrush with a generous amount of blue paint, and slathers it over the first bird. Harry almost hisses at the feeling of it.

“Cold, love?” Louis asks, looking at Harry with those impossibly blue eyes and Harry finds himself itching to take a photo. He remembers his first photography class. The professor had told them that looking through the lens first, and then going trigger happy with the button, snapping multiple shots from multiple angles was foolish. _Your eyes found the beauty first,_ he had declared. _Remember what is was that made your fingers reach for your camera, what it was you saw that made your heart stop for a second, and take a picture of that. Only that, and exactly that._ Harry looks at the beautiful boy in front of him, mentally dissecting him into photographs. The soft curve of his eyebrows.  _Click._ The stubble lining his jaw. _Click._ The angle of his collarbones. _Click._  


“Harry? You alright there?” Louis asks, sounding vaguely amused.

“You’re beautiful, that’s all,” Harry admits breathlessly, and then freezes when he realises what he just said.

To his relief, Louis just laughs. “I always thought toxic fumes in paint was a myth created by parents to stop kids from painting all over themselves but I guess not, eh?"

He looks at him laughing, his head tipped back, and god, Harry wants to trace the lines at the side of his mouth, to kiss the soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight crinkle in his nose. He is so fucked. 

 

                                                                                                                    ***

 

“Louis,” Harry says raggedly, and there must have been something in his voice, because Louis’ hand stills, poised over the other swallow, paint dripping onto Harry’s collarbone. They stare at each other for a few moments, green eyes fixed with blue. Harry feels the tension in the air, thick and cloying but not unwelcome.  

“Harry,” Louis replies, edging forward slightly. He licks his lips, and Harry follows the motion with his eyes. He watches Louis carefully places the paintbrush down. Louis gets up to his feet, and carefully straddles Harry on the sofa. Harry welcomes the warmth of the older boy bleeding through his jeans. 

“Is this okay?” Louis asks, and Harry nods. Harry’s breathing fast and hard now, as Louis reaches for Harry, with tentative hands. “Painting with hands is always more fun,” he explains, placing his hands high up on Harry’s chest, over the swallows, and slowly drags his hands downwards. The paint smears, the blue of the swallows tainting the green of the butterfly. Harry’s lets out a soft whimper as Louis’ hands move lower, ghosting over his abs. He stops just above the waistband of Harry’s jeans, and Louis grips him, thumbs bruising the valleys of his hipbones, pressing paint from his hands into the fern leaf tattoos there. Harry arches his back, letting out a shuddering moan. 

“God, Haz, look at you,” Louis exhales shakily, as he curls his fingers around the other boy’s wrists, pinning him down as the paint from Louis’ hands bleed onto Harry’s anchor tattoo. Harry can’t help the small, wrecked noise that spills from his mouth.

“Lou, kiss me,” Harry pleads. He looks up at Louis, eyes heavy with desire. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he sounds desperate and needy. He doesn’t care that he’s known this boy for slightly more than a week or that it’s footie captain Louis fucking Tomlinson, and he’s just Harry. None of it matters. 

Louis smiles at him gently, and Harry’s breath hitches in his throat. He doesn’t think he could ever get used to that smile. Harry’s heart thrashes against his ribs, head spinning with giddy, reckless excitement. 

 

                                                                                                                    ***

 

They’re interrupted by the sound of keys jangling in a lock, and they spring apart just before Louis’ lips brush against Harry’s. Harry untangles their limbs as Louis hauls himself of the sofa, and both boys are breathing hard and fast. 

“Lou, I’m home!” Zayn announces, kicking the door shut behind him. “Why the fuck are you hiding in the dark?” he asks, fumbling with the light switches as he dumps his bag on the floor. The living room floods with light, and that’s when Zayn sees the two boys. It’s quiet for a moment. 

“Hey, Zayn,” Harry says, blushing as he realises that he’s shirtless and smeared in paint. Paint from Louis’ hands. 

“Hi, Harry,” Zayn replies slowly. 

The silence builds. 

“The storm’s over then?” Louis asks, and his voice is all wrong, pitched too high to be calm. Harry can feel the tension rolling off him in waves and he suddenly feels a little sick. Standing here, with goosebumps on his skin and the glaring lights in his eyes, everything feels so out of place and a little too real. Whatever little world he had built with Louis while the storm raged outside, feels shattered and small and gone. Harry feels panic clawing up his throat. What was he thinking? He’s so stupid, he doesn’t even know Louis Tomlinson. He doesn’t know what it is about football that makes Louis’ blood rush to his head and flood with happiness and adrenaline, or what the words inked onto his chest mean to Louis. He doesn’t even know Louis’ favourite colour or his middle name. He doesn’t know so much about him, but somehow in the few hours they’ve spent together, Harry has somehow convinced himself it doesn’t matter and that he’s practically in love with the other boy. God, he’s so stupid. Louis must think he’s an idiot. Harry feels his eyes start to prickle with hot tears of embarrassment. He needs to get out of here, he thinks, panicked. He needs to get out of here fast. Maybe he’ll call Niall to come get him. 

“Thanks for letting me wait the storm out here, I better get going now,” Harry says, relieved that his voice is even. He pulls his shirt over his head roughly, wincing slightly as the paint sticks uncomfortably in some places. He grabs his coat and shrugs it on as he makes his way to the door. 

 

                                                                                                            ***

 

Louis makes a strangled noise, and Harry’s head snaps up. Louis looks utterly ravaged, his eyes dark and stormy. “Don’t you dare leave, Haz,” he growls low in his throat, and Harry thinks his knees could buckle under the weight of his glare. 

“Lou,” Harry whimpers, and something in Louis snaps. Harry barely has time to react before Louis crosses the distance between them. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Zayn walk away, chuckling slightly. 

Harry expects it to be hard and messy, for Louis' mouth to crash against him with a bruising kiss, but instead, Louis brushes his lips against his, soft and tentative. Harry lets out a small sigh as he traces Harry’s bottom lip with his tongue, before sucking it gently. Louis presses a light, chaste kiss to Harry’s lips before pulling away. He leans his forehead down onto the taller boy’s shoulder. 

“I’ve wanted to do that since that day in the library,” Louis admits, nuzzling his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, laying a trail of kisses there. Harry feels the sandpaper of stubble dragging against his skin, and he moans lightly.

“That makes both of us,” Harry replies, large hands cradling Louis’ jaw, pulling him up for another kiss.

The doorknob digs painfully into Harry’s back but he doesn’t care. Harry licks into Louis’ mouth, deepening the kiss, and he mewls as Louis threads his hands into Harry’s hair, tugging on his curls.

Louis pulls away, and Harry whines at the sudden loss. 

Laughing, Louis tip toes and presses a little kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose. 

“I’m glad I stole your seat,” Harry whispers.

“Me too, you thieving little shit,” Louis smiles, “And I’m glad Zayn forgot about your meeting,” he continues.

“I’m glad it stormed and you had to let me stay,” Harry adds with a giggle.

“You know, I’m starting to think that was your plan all along, slowly seducing with me with your curls,” Louis says, gently tucking a stray curl behind Harry’s ear.

“Did it work, though?” Harry asks jokingly, but he can’t keep the genuine apprehension from leaking into his voice.

“Of course it did, Hazza,” Louis insists, kissing away Harry’s uncertainty, “Of course it did."

Harry knows in that moment, that he’s completely ruined for anyone else. That this is it for him, this darling boy with those blue eyes and soft smile. This boy is his why, his because, his always. And Harry doesn’t mind at all.  

                                                                                                 

                                                                                                               ***      

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So the title is from king city by swim deep (great song!) and the book harry was reading in the beginning was teeth by hannah moskowitz, and its absolutely brilliant. Also, the poem louis quoted was for women who are difficult to love by warsan shire.


End file.
